Three Observations

It's Saturday here and the temperature here is 93C and beautiful. I have three observations about Tashkent that will amuse no one but me.

First of all, this money thing is absolutely ridiculous. As I posted earlier, the largest note that the government prints is the 1000 sum note, which is currently less than a dollar. So exchanging even small dollar amounts leaves you with huuuuge wads of money that you must somehow carry around. But that has created a niche market for the young entrepreneur, a man-purse. It's not like the fabled manbag of Seinfeld fame, more like a purse with a gigantic handle. I thought I had snapped a photo of one but all I got was this dude's rear. But all the young wannabe mobsters have them.

Second observation. The Tashkent subway rules. Not only are they cheap at less than $0.20 a ride, the stations themselves are works of art, even more so than Moscow's fabled stations. Since they were also designed as nuclear fallout shelters, taking photos is strictly prohibited, but that didn't stop me.

And lastly, and more tragically, times are hard here in Uzbekistan. Really hard, with average salaries ranging around $25-35 a month. If you walk by the huge statue of Amon Timur most nights you can see one of the most heartbreaking results of this economic hardship, parents selling their daughters off for the night to strangers. I have unfortunately walked right by one of these transactions, in full view of the police. It's enough to make you wish for a crowbar and the fighting skills of Bruce Li.

Lost in Transliteration

This will be short and uninteresting because I have loud Uzbek/Turkish/Russian rap/rock worming through my ears, sapping me completely of creativity. It's Thursday night here in the capital of Uzbekistan and it is pretty crazy already. Don't these kids know it's a school night???

I'm starting to go stircrazy here. Usually I can find someone from whatever country to talk to but I haven't been able to find the key. And I haven't come across anyone from the West, much less the USA, which is fine enough I suppose. Speaking Russian for a week straight -- badly -- is starting to get to me. At least it gives me time to focus on my first love, writing children's theatre.

I am here until Monday and, sad to say, I think I'm gonna run out of things to write about. I've seen all the sights (and the sites) and I don't have enough time to get a visa for Tajikistan or Kazakhstan, so I'm gonna have to stir up trouble here somehow. I keep visualizing how one of these Uzbek mobster youths would respond to a fistful of sand in their face. Just kidding, mostly.

Of course there's always Baltika 3, the beer of tsars.

Lost and Found

I realized I was lost after ten minutes and my third barren browngrey semi-urban dusty street. My legs, having been thighmastered by the minaret the day before, were sluggish and uncooperative. The packs of passing schoolkids, garbed in shiny black trousers and white shirts, had been replaced by stray dogs and trash heaps. I thought I had been taking a clever shortcut between two major avenues here in Samarkand, but no blue mosques could be seen, only clotheslines, hanging meat from unknown animals, and 70s-style television antennas. I had been following two Russian tourists, eavesdropping on their conversation really, but Russians always walk as if they're in an Olympic race, and soon they were gone. What was I thinking? It's not as if the streets in this 3000 year old city were laid in a Cartesian coordinate system! There was no use backtracking, I stubbornly walked until something familiar became apparent in this Uzbek maze. The sun was tanningbed bright, my sweat glands were on high output and my odor must have been legendary.

My male pride finally succumbed, and since my knowledge of Uzbek rounds to zero, I asked a teenage girl, in Russian, if she knew the way to Ulughbeck Avenue. Her startled look and quick exit were telling as she sprinted up the street. Although I am used to driving off women, this was a little much, and I started to feel dizzy. Behind me came "Hello Senor!" in an uncommonly high voice. I turned around to see a shirtless and impossibly brown boy, maybe ten or eleven years old. He continued "Hello, my name is Arkut, may I help you?". Startled, but on task, I asked him for directions, but he didn't seem to understand. He said "Come", took my hand and tugged on me to walk up the street. He suddenly pushed open a brown creaky door to one of the countless decripit buildings lining the street, revealing a beautiful, green courtyard inside. I suppose I should not have been surprised as this was the Soviet mode of home decor -- ugly, possibly-scary exterior and comfortable, inviting interior.

I didn't really know what was happening. This courtyard was inside the house but seemed like it was outside and I was seated on a wooden bench with extravagant trim and beautiful yellow pillows. Arkut yelled out "We have visitor!". I must have looked as green as I felt because the teenage girl, Guzila, brought a cold cloth for my forehead. But, then again, I had already witnessed the extreme heights of Uzbek hospitality. In a Tashkent restaurant once, I saw a veritable army of male servers approach my bare table and, after a flurry of hands, cloth and utensils, leave with an immaculate six-piece setting.

An older woman, obviously their mother, came out, with three other children creeping behind her, all seemingly comfortable with the foreigner in their midst. As Atkur continued to me in English I realized that's all he could do, speak, and understood no responses back. He was completely aping whatever western culture he had picked up here in Central Uzbekistan. Fortunately his mother spoke Russian, but she kept asking me what kind of meat I wanted. I chokingly said no, trying not to show that patented snarky gnurl of my upper lip when confronted with such thoughts. I knew this was like being at grandmother's house, there was no way to escape without consuming something. I explained that I had just eaten too much watermelon, the only thing that came to mind that second. She countered with drinks and I obliged, juice perhaps.

In two minutes, three glasses of liquid appeared before me; one reddish, one orangish, one brownish. I smiled, drank the lukewarm tomato juice and tried not to grimace. It tasted quite fine but the temperature was not refreshing. Replacing it in my mind with a cool blue frost Gatorade, I downed the brownish one, which might have been something akin to pomegranete, I'm not really sure. All the while I was peppered with Arkut's questions, knowing that I could answer anything and get the same reaction.

Trying to politely wrench myself out of the jaws of hospitality, I asked the mother if she could tell me how to get the big street. She barked something in Uzbek at Arkut, who took me by the hand. I thanked her for her generosity as he tugged me out the door. Perhaps twenty yards up the street, around the corner, there was Ulughbeck Street! I offered the boy a $10 dollar bill, a sizeable sum to these people, and he refused. I insisted and he refused again. Atkur offered "Pleased to meet you, American friend." and ran back home.

Since I'm headed back to Tashkent tomorrow, a mishmash of Samarkand photos:

Towering Above Samarkand

I was only halfway up the minaret and my thighs were already burning. Dust from six centuries past filled my hair, nose and eyes and my shoulders could barely wedge through the corkscrew staircase. Small trapezoidal apertures to the outside were the only light sources, letting in increasingly violent gusts of wind. Finally, after forty stories of dustdevils and buttblasting stepclimbing, I peeped my head out the top. Of course, this being nonlitigious Uzbekistan, I could have easily fallen to my undocumented death, but the thrill was intense. The mosques, minarets and plazas of Samarkand splayed out before me and the screaming wind felt as if it would scoop me out of the portal. Trying not to drop my month-old Razr cameraphone, I tremored out some crappy photos, took a breath, and started back down, a task even more difficult than the ascent. I stumbled out, exhausted, and thanked the police guard who I had greased with a $3 bribe and headed for the nearest bench to recover. Exploring the rest of the Registan would have to wait until the lactic acid in my muscles subside.

With its blue mosaic walls, majestic medressas and green spaces, the Registan is a wonderfully shocking sight here in the middle of Uzbekistan. The oldest medressa, finished in 1420 by the great astronomer/ruler Ulughbek, himself the grandson of Amur Timur, is filled with lecture halls where theology, philosophy and mathematics were taught. About a hundred students lived here in the two stories of dormitories nearly 600 years ago.

Further up the road is the Old Town, a habitat dating back to the 5th century BC, where I had my first view of real Uzbekistan. Big cities, like Tashkent and elsewhere, tend to put on a false face, emphasizing not only the best of a culture but also the worst. Small buses crammed with people, meat and dry goods spill out onto the street, the occasional donkeycart with family clopping by. Uzbek boys sell drinks of Fanta and beer, all from the same four glasses, which are busily washed in-between customers. My green eyes and longish black hair make me stand out even more here, where everyone is Tajik or Uzbek, but I don't feel threatened. The throngs of beggars with pupa-like children in arms who throng me is unnerving. Few signs here are in Russian, the only Cyrillic seen in old shops%

Off to Samarkand

My previous post didn't show up, unfortunately, because the internet is so incredibly slow at times. Seriously, it takes over five minutes for the google page to come up. Anyways, it is 6:30 am and I'm headed to Samarkand, the oldest of the Central Asian cities. I'm unsure of online access while there but I will be back in Tashkent in a couple of days.

Walking the Money Tightrope

With a sprawling population of 2.6 million people, Tashkent is the fourth largest city in the former Soviet Union. Rebuilt as a modern city after the crippling 1966 earthquake that levelled much of the physical foundation and left 300,000 homeless, wide, clean boulevards crisscross emerald parks, enormous fountains serving as backdrops for the newly married. The ethnic mix is fascinating. Mostly comprised of Uzbeks (Sunni Muslims, although about 10% actually practice) and ethnic Russians there are also sizeable populations of Tatars, Kazakhs, Persians and Koreans. Though generally friendly now, the Uzbeks and Russians do not typically intermarry, constrained by religous typing and overtones from harsh conflicts.

After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, bringing with it Uzbekistan's tumultuous independence just 15 years ago this weekend, the large scowling bust of Karl Marx in the main square was replaced by a suitably patriotic statue of neorevisionist hero Amir Timur on horseback. The history buff will remember him as Tamerlane, the very same tyrant who conquered Central Asia and Persia through campaigns of terror, building huge structures of human skulls of the slain to intimidate his enemies. A little further west is Mustaqillik maydoni, also known as Independence Square, which used to sport the USSR's largest Lenin statue. In its place, a larger-than-necessary towering brass globe with garish map of Uzbekistan in neon glow.

Threading the money needle here has been exhausting and ridiculous. At the current exchange rate, 1 dollar equals about 1200 Uzbek som, but the highest printed note is the somewhat rare 1000 som, with the 500 som note being the standard ote. Therefore changing $100 (the only bill acceptable) gives you an enormous stack of money (an Australian gentleman let me snap this photo) and carrying it around safely and discretely becomes impossible. It's the American equivalent of carrying $200 in only dollar bills! The ATM problem is just as bad, as they can be found only in the big hotels and are unsurprisingly nearly always cashless. I have only two credit cards, MasterCard and American Express, neither accepted anywhere. Only Visa. I walked around all day with the equivalent of 17 dollars, taking dirt-cheap taxis from one hotel to the next, only to find empty bankomats. After three hours and one liter of body sweat, I was able to find an apparition between a foot of plexiglas at the Sheraton who could use a terminal to access my SESLOC debit card. The stupid $300 daily limit may squeeze me since I almost certainly have to buy an airline ticket to Kiev by cash and it won't be that cheap. Plus I am trying to squeeze in a trip to Samarkand, one of the world's oldest cities 300 miles away, so the balancing act will be tricky indeed.

Who knew that traveling in Central Asia would be such a problem in logic?